Эд Горман - Stranglehold

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Kristin said. “It’s my turn.”

Susan frowned at me. “You didn’t look as if you agreed when I said things were tightening up but that we were doing all right.”

“He’s coming on strong, Susan,” I said, “very strong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her words were sharp enough to get everybody’s attention. Now they were all watching us, her leaning against the coffee bar, me sitting on the desk chair I’d just turned around to face her. This was better than TV. The boss and the client getting into it.

I walked over next to her so that I didn’t have to raise my voice. As I refilled my cup I said, “It means just what I said, that he’s coming on strong. Which means we have to come on strong.”

We were having two conversations, the one everyone could hear and the unspoken one, the latter being about her not staying focused, not fighting hard enough.

“His side has a lot more registered voters than ours does, Susan. And we have to remember that.”

She turned that chic face on the staffers and said, “I appreciate all you’re doing for me. I’ve had some personal things I’ve had to attend to. But they’re being handled now, and I promise you I’m going to start kicking ass again.”

A few of them laughed. She was a hard worker and a no-bullshit boss. She didn’t play any games and she was generous with her people. We knew this because we always talk with the client’s staffers to get some kind of fix on who we’ll be working with. Some clients resent this. Susan was happy we were doing it.

“And to prove it I’m going to humiliate Steve Duffy in the next debate. I was too nice the last time. This time I’m going to slap that frat-boy smirk off his face.”

I was smiling with the rest of them. Ben high-fived me. Susan had good instincts. She knew why I was here, and she was going to shut me down fast so that I’d hop on that plane and head back to Chicago. “Could I see the internals, Ben?”

Then it was back to work. I finished up my e-mailing while Susan and Ben went over our own tracking polls. These polls weren’t as simple as how many points we were up and down. They detailed how we were doing with various groups broken down by income, education, ethnicity, religion, and address. I’d looked them over a half hour ago. I was still unhappy with the blue-collar vote. Though we were nine points ahead of Duffy right now, in economic times like these we should have been hitting fourteen, fifteen points ahead. But Duffy’s days as a sportscaster — and not a loudmouth, either; a good, solid pro who knew what he was talking about — gave him an edge with males across the board.

After going over the internals, Susan and Ben talked about the scheduled radio interview she’d be doing this afternoon. This interview would be different from the one she had done with Gil Hawkins. He hated her politics and had done everything he could to make her look bad. Don Stern was a real reporter. His questions this afternoon would be tough but fair.

Like most politicians, running for reelection meant stealing days from her duties in Washington. Generally she’d fly home for weekends and the weekends were packed with speeches, events, interviews. For example, when she finished with the radio interview, she’d be attending a women’s business conference. She was the keynote speaker at this conference, which started on a Friday afternoon. It was a regional gathering of successful businesswomen. Duffy would be speaking tomorrow. There would be a lot of press. We needed to make a good showing.

“A friend of mine is in the hospital here, Ben. I want to run over there and spend an hour with her if I can. The interview isn’t till one, so I’ll have plenty of time to just meet you at the radio station.”

“I was hoping we’d have lunch together and go over a few more things, Susan.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that tonight.” A studied laugh. “Don’t worry, Ben. I’m not going to wander off again.”

“Think I’ll head down the hall,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When I left, Susan was still trying to reassure Ben that he could trust her again. They were so busy talking that they didn’t notice that I’d grabbed my topcoat on my supposed trip to the men’s room. I went out the back door, slid under the wheel, and backed a quarter of the way down the alley. There was a narrow spot in front of a loading dock where I could hide. Susan didn’t know what my rental looked like, and as far as she was concerned, I’d just made a trip to the john, nothing more suspicious.

She didn’t emerge for another fifteen minutes. She’d probably spent the time showing off the shiny, fine, trustworthy Susan to the staffers. She hesitated before opening the door of her new green Volvo. She took a deep breath. Her blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. Then she eased herself into the car and left the parking lot. I gave her a half-block head start. I’d done a fair share of tailing in my army intelligence days. I hoped I hadn’t lost the touch.

At the time I had no idea where she’d be leading me. My first shock was seeing the shabbiness of the motel. The second was seeing her rush from the room as if she’d witnessed something terrible. The third was going into the room myself and finding the bloody towel in the bathroom.

The new, improved, trustworthy Susan wasn’t any of these things at all.

On the way back from following Susan, I called Ben on my cell and asked him if he’d seen anybody from the Larson-Davies oppo research group in town here.

“Oh, yeah. Monica and Greg Larson himself. The Chronicle is doing profiles of state political people who went on to become national. Since Monica and Larson are working for Duffy, the Chronicle had them come here for photos, you know, his hometown and all. Why, you thinking of asking her out again?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Several years earlier, in a zombie state following my divorce, I ended up in the arms, if not the bed, of Monica Davies. We missed the bed part because we were both so drunk we passed out on her hotel room couch. Just before we were to stagger into bed she brought out a joint the size of a finger and it made us both comatose within ten minutes. This had been in Vegas at a convention for political soldiers. Hard to say who was more disgusted — me for betraying my side or her for betraying hers. The few times we’d met since then we’d been resolutely cold.

“Any particular reason you’re asking?”

I could have told him about her business card being in the cheap suitcase I’d found in the motel room, but I decided against it for now. “Somebody said they thought they saw her in a restaurant here. I was just curious.”

“Yeah, in fact I ran into Larson the other night at a bar where the local reporters drink. He was telling them all his war stories and they were eating it up. According to him, everybody on our side is a traitor, a terrorist, and a sexual deviant who would put de Sade to shame.”

“Good old Greg.”

“Hey, are you insinuating he’d lie?”

“Of course not. Not our Greg.”

The only hotel in town with four stars was where I happened to be staying, the Commodore. If they were in town it was likely they were staying there also. I could double up lunch with finding out if they were under the same roof.

For lunch I had a BLT and a glass of ginger ale and then I went looking for them. Detective work should always be this easy. She was in room 608 and he was in room 624.

I stepped off the elevator to find a bellhop leaning against the wall talking fast into a cell phone. He looked and sounded agitated. I’d spent a year reading Jim Thompson novels set in hotels that were actually concentration camps of sorts. This guy looked like he’d fit in there.